


your hand in mine

by lisettedelapin



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, just a lotta handholds like the title says
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:57:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisettedelapin/pseuds/lisettedelapin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Some things change. Others don't.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	your hand in mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themorninglark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/gifts).



> a birthday fic for my dearest friend, lark! thank you for being so beautiful, i hope you enjoy this. <333
> 
> title from the explosions in the sky song! i like the strings version for makoharu. c:

They begin when they are kindergarteners and Haru's mother tells him to hold Makoto's hand as they cross the road.

He does as he's told. If he is to be honest, he doesn't like being in the middle. The weight of Makoto's hand comes with a sense of duty he can't bring himself to shake off.

And when they reach the other side, Makoto's grip doesn't slacken. So Haru doesn't let go either.

His mother points out rows of evergreen trees to them. Eagerly, Makoto repeats the name back to her. Haru tries to trace the branches from between the foliage.

The leaves are brightest where the sun's light darts onto them. Haru watches them flicker.

He turns for a moment, to consider Makoto.

~

 _Tokyo,_ Makoto says. And in an instant it feels like the world is catching in Haru's throat.

The night doesn't collapse on them. Makoto's eyes are steady.

~

He's never heard heartbreak; he still hasn't managed to figure out what exactly a heart -- beyond flesh and blood -- means.

It's something in the spirit, he guesses.

The crowd progresses sombrely, all dressed in white they remind Haru of the seafoam that slows upon moving against the shore.

His stomach turns. Vaguely, he registers that he doesn't want to be here. Makoto is clinging to the hem of his shirt, he doesn't tug but his grasp distances Haru from the crowd.

Haru reaches, instinctively, to pry Makoto's fingers from his shirt, to instead take hold of Makoto's hand with his own.

~

It's a humid festival night; smoke curling on air that shivers around rows of lights. Makoto wears a deep green yukata, it hangs on his lanky frame in a way that is by no means graceful, but occasionally he will stand straight and Haru thinks that it doesn't look bad either.

He's long been taller than Haru by now; it's hard to lose sight of him. But the heat of the crowd beats a heavy pulse around Haru and he can't help but feel nervous when they are not standing side by side.

He thinks perhaps he should take Makoto's hand.

The crowd breathes against his back, pushes him forward. Before he has time to panic, he sees Makoto has stilled, his hand outstretched to Haru. The glow of the lamps reaches to touch his face, shifts the colours in his eyes. He smiles softly as he catches Haru's fingers.

~

There are times that Haru reaches for Makoto when they cross the Shiwagawa river. If the sky is overcast or if the wind whooshes through them in wheezing groans, he cradles the curve of Makoto's palm against his own.

He notices sometimes, that Makoto steels his gaze ahead, seems to deliberately slow their pace.

 _Idiot,_ he thinks. _You don't have to prove anything._

Whether Haru holds his hand or not, Makoto will still be in the middle; the water flowing to one side of him. But it's something. There's something in the way Makoto releases his breath upon the contact.

~

He will come to expect Makoto's hand in the morning. He will come to expect Makoto's voice to be the first he hears each day.

The warmth -- it helps. It eases him out of the water, makes what meets him outside a little less confusing.

~

He doesn't know it when he watches the crowd of white wind through the streets.

He doesn't know it when Makoto begins to turn his eyes upwards, away from the depths of water.

He realises during the training camp. When Makoto's hand is motionless in his and in an instant, Haru can see that a heart doesn't break with great sound. It doesn't break so much as it washes up. The sound is that of the high tide, licking up to swallow the strength of a storm.

~

He comes to always walk with the noise of the ocean to one side of him, and the weight of Makoto's presence to the other.

It's never the crashing of the waves he finds himself measuring.

~

There's a burst of colour at his periphery, then. And the pin drops to stir the fabric of his insides just as the light melts to reveal the sky again.

He is caught, suddenly, on the brink of a future he does not yet know. But when he tries to reach for railing and his hand falls through empty air, he realises that's not really it at all. He's been caught on the brink for a long while. Now, time quickens. If need be, it will leave him behind.

And Makoto may reach for his hand every morning but maybe that's just the thing. He's a step ahead already.

Haru can't tip his head back and blur the sound of motion through bathwater forever. Eventually, he will surface, and the distance will be further than a single step.

~

He decides on Tokyo, on so much more than Tokyo.

Rin is the first to know. He takes the words with a smile brighter than the sun, sweeping with all the force of a hurricane. His palm slaps against Haru's with promise, and instead of dropping it, Rin clasps Haru's hand and tugs him into a hug. He laughs against Haru's shoulder, what Haru knows will be a golden future between his teeth.

He's always been so showy with his emotions. And Haru is only human; he can't help but smile back.

And it's frightening but it's not a decision he makes with Makoto in mind. It's not for Makoto but--

~

_I like Makoto._

He likes Makoto.

There's one empty box to be packed, the sun is close to setting. Makoto holds a cup of tea between both hands, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent towards his chest, one of Haru's old books propped up against his thigh. His hair is messy as always, his eyes aware as ever as he reads. By the same time tomorrow they will both be in Tokyo. And Haru is caught with the sudden desire to say Makoto's name just to see his answering smile.

Of course he likes Makoto.

And he's always known, but never quite like this.

He says Makoto's name without knowing what words to speak afterwards. And _yes, there's that smile._

He repeats Makoto's name with his heart strangely calm, with the confidence they will be okay.

~

Later, Haru will hide a smile when Makoto's eyes flutter closed. And Makoto will smile like he knows anyway.

They'll kiss like they are trying to breathe a secret to each other. And the earth won't shake because secrets are supposed to be quietly kept.

Haru won't know who reaches first, only that their fingers lace at the same time.

~

Somewhere, Makoto hangs sheets on the balustrade of an apartment balcony. From the doorway, Haru watches the fabric flutter as if breathing, as if the air can see and decides to seek shelter within them.

Makoto knows he is there, he calls Haru's name in that comfortably well-worn way of his.

Haru steps forward, armed with the laundry hamper he crosses the threshold to meet the whirring noise of the city. The breeze brings the scent of detergent with it, and then it lazes back into the otherwise tepid air.

"Haru-chan, you used different washing powder today." It's not a question -- Makoto speaks knowingly. He's always been a keen observer. Haru wonders what he makes of the change

"Drop the -chan," Haru mutters. He says it more as a matter of ritual. He knows Makoto will not stop.

Or really, he knows Makoto doesn't intend to stop. Sure enough, Makoto shifts, bunches a cotton shirt to his chest and turns his head to smile at Haru. It's a smile with teeth, the type that warms to almost-laughter. There's crow's feet that come with it nowadays, but it is as familiar as always. And Haru is grateful for something homespun, for a reminder of who he is in the midst of packed travel schedules, press conferences, t.v interviews.

"It's meant to be seaside scented."

Makoto hums. "Ah, it doesn't quite get it right, does it?"

Haru inhales, then shakes his head. It really doesn't.

He'd bought it on a whim. There's something wrong in the way they've tried to capture the salt. It's too sharp where it should be fresh in a sun-warmed sort of way. It's nice all the same, but it's not what Haru is looking for. He doesn't think he'll buy it again.

He lets Makoto free the hamper from him and set it down. He takes Makoto's hand before Makoto extends it. He was about to extend it, Haru knows.

Makoto's palm is warm where it presses against his. Their fingers fold between each other in the way they always do; touching the words neither of them can quite find to the grooves of one another's knuckles.

~

Their foreheads touch when they break apart.

Haru imagines his pulse thrums with the assured calm of steady waters.

~

And suspended above the sprawl of the metropolis, with a life of unpredictability Haru is surprised he wouldn't change, he feels found.


End file.
